I can barely read my writing.

walk by
homeless faces
who stop long
enough to become
homeless names
and they just ask for cigarettes
or a light or some
change
that we could both
use for a bus
and maybe they get on
or maybe they don't

in the quiet
of the kitchen,
it's just the clock and I.
he mocks me with
his tick and his tock
and his twitching hands.

we are both afraid of time.

4:11

I smoke and listen
to her in the shower.
the music, the fan,
the cars, the gray sky and snow falling.

Now, it is
4:18.

and the cats are
eating in the
kitchen.

I stare off
into my room
at blank walls
and an old backpack
hanging from a nail.

a minimalist approach
to Feng Shui,
I guess.

I'm coming down;
I turned the heat up
but my bare feet
are still cold.